


And all my instincts, they return

by WishingStar



Series: Flare [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, It starts with an 'a' and ends with a 'ngst' you get three guesses, M/M, Oh and one more thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-16 18:25:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11258439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WishingStar/pseuds/WishingStar
Summary: Lots of people have blue eyes. It shouldn't astonish Steve like it does, the Winter Soldier having blue eyes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You know how sometimes you stare at an unfinished work for way too long and end up hating every word of it? Well, this installment of the series was actually the first I came up with, sooo... yeah. That happened. Hopefully at least parts of this are still as good as I thought they'd be originally.
> 
> At least chapter updates shouldn't take too long, since I held off posting until I'd finished the second draft.

_[2014]_

Steve finds it hard to believe that Natasha still hasn't uncovered the truth, even now that he's joined SHIELD officially. Or maybe she has, but wants him to think she respects him enough not to snoop.

Or maybe she's trying to, as he once heard an overly-chipper morning show host phrase it, _get him back in the saddle._

"You know, if you asked Kristen out, from Statistics, she'd probably say yes."

"That's why I don't ask."

~*~

"What about that nurse that lives across the hall from you? She seems kind of nice."

"Secure the engine room, then find me a date."

"I'm multitasking!"

Steve would normally banter back, but this mission has him on edge. There's something fishy about a SHIELD vessel in these waters, something Fury hasn't told him. To make matters worse, half his STRIKE team are still untested, after some kind of administrative shake-up resulted in a bunch of agents being reassigned. They're all talented, but they haven't worked together long enough to gel—to learn and compensate for each others' weaknesses, and to understand what Steve expects without him having to explain everything. Brock Rumlow is the closest, maybe, and can anticipate some of Steve's more common moves. But it's nothing like his Howling Commando days. Nothing at _all_ like fighting alongside Bucky, coordinating without conscious thought, so attuned to each others' awareness that Falsworth used to tease them both about having eyes in the backs of their heads. Must be something strange about that Brooklyn stock, he used to say.

And maybe single combat brings back memories, just a little, of something he felt in those days. Not self-sufficiency, that isn't the word for it. But a sense of control that came from relying only on tools directly at his disposal—his own body and Bucky's—and knowing that everything else might blow sky-high in a moment, but he'd be all right, because his body wouldn't fail him and neither would Bucky and what else did he need?

 _Invincibility_ might be the word. And if he keeps recklessly chasing that feeling, he's going to get his teammates killed. No wonder they don't respect him like the Howlies did.

~*~

Natasha's partially right, though. Sam's right, too: Steve needs to start thinking about how to be happy again. He's lived two years since Bucky died. People recover from these things. Steve will never flare again, but he might foster a new bond, if he put the effort in. And even if a new bond never took, he might find happiness anyway—living with a partner he cared for, raising a family. Like Bucky used to want for him.

Bucky would want him to try.

"You know, if you want... if you want. You're welcome to use my machine. It might be cheaper than the one in the basement."

And doesn't it just figure that the moment Steve screws up his courage and puts some effort into making a human connection, his boss gets shot through his apartment wall by a man with superhuman abilities.

"He's fast. Strong. He had a metal arm." Steve racks his brain for anything more, but the darkness, the element of surprise, and the combat gear covering the assassin from head to toe prevented Steve from observing his opponent in the way he should've. Apart from those three qualities, he wouldn't know the man from Adam.

Meanwhile, the Strike team attacks Steve in an elevator, which goes to prove that Rumlow can't read Steve even half as well as the Commandos did, and Steve could never read Rumlow at all.

It kind of feels personal.

~*~

Steve ditches his SHIELD uniform in an LA Fitness gym and borrows (steals) civilian clothing. The shirt, jacket, and jeans almost fit. The shoes and gloves are at least a size too big. He walks with a shuffle through the hospital, and when he grabs Natasha by the shoulders, the gloves make his grip clumsy. Luckily, Natasha refrains from fighting him off.

"I know who killed Fury."

If Natasha's working with Rumlow and the rest of the team, Steve reasons, then it doesn't matter whether he trusts her or not. She could bring him down either way, with SHIELD on her side and Steve out of options. So he trusts her, because it's a low-risk gamble with high potential reward... and also because if a fellow Avenger can't be trusted, then that's it; Steve has lost the only thing left worth believing in. He wouldn't _give up_ , per se—he was always meant to die fighting, one way or another—but in that scenario, he thinks he'd prefer a quick stab in the back to anything he might see coming.

He doesn't want to fight his best still-living friend. Is that too much to ask?

~*~

Natasha tells Steve, "You seem pretty chipper, for someone who just found out they died for nothing."

"Well, I guess I just like to know who I'm fighting." 

This isn't the whole truth. The truth is, when Bucky fell, Steve vowed to burn Hydra to the ground and salt the ashes. After waking to realize Bucky hadn't died on impact, he wondered—of course he wondered—whether his zeal for vengeance might have done more harm than good. If he'd focused less on Zola and Red Skull and more on the search... or if he'd boarded that plane with a cooler head and come back alive...

The point is, Steve's vengeance turned sour long before he learned of Hydra's continued existence. Now he has another chance, and this time, he'll do it _right_.

~*~

Stealing the last EXO-7 Falcon goes without a hitch. Kidnapping Jasper Sitwell goes even more smoothly than Steve hoped. That alone should have tipped Steve off that they were due for something to go horribly south.

"Insight's launching in 16 hours. We're cutting it a little bit close, here."

"I know." Steve jerks his head to indicate Sitwell in the backseat. "We'll use him to bypass the DNA scans and access the helicarriers directly."

"What?" Sitwell yelps. "Are you crazy? That is a terrible, terrible idea—"

His sentence ends in a scream and the rush of wind through broken glass.

Things happen in rapid succession: gunshots, Natasha diving forward to push him out of the bullet's path, Sam fighting to keep the car from spinning out of control. Steve slams the gear shift all the way forward.

The Winter Soldier sails off the roof and lands in a perfect forward roll. Metal fingers dig furrows in the blacktop as he slides to a halt. He's armored in black, head to foot save for the metal arm, which glitters in the sun. A mask and goggles cover his face, and Steve thinks fleetingly that while _ghost_ might not be the word he'd use to describe the Soldier, _human_ doesn't seem to fit any better.

The Winter Soldier attacks.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the comments and kudos! I don't need to tell you how encouraging those are.
> 
> Action scenes are hard to write, y'all. If anyone has concrit on the pacing, let me know. (Or any sort of concrit; I always like to improve. But I found the pacing particularly difficult.)

Steve suspects, given their encounter the night Fury died, that the Winter Soldier is a match for him in hand-to-hand combat. As he crouches behind his shield, pinned under a hail of bullets, it occurs to him that the man's tactical skills must be equally formidable. He's attacked them on an overpass, then blown Steve to the street below, separating him from Sam and Natasha and claiming the higher ground for himself.

The bullets cease. Steve risks a glance upward and sees Sam looking down from the overpass. Sam has a gun.

"Go! I got this!"

Steve runs, keeping his eyes peeled. Natasha will have tried to lure the Soldier down from the overpass, but Steve doesn't know if she succeeded. More gunfire makes him duck reflexively and throw his shield at its origin. The shield strikes a Hydra agent, but in the arm rather than the head. It knocks him down but probably doesn't kill him, and Steve has to leap forward to catch it as it ricochets back.

He fumbles the catch. The shield slips through his fingers, slamming with a loud _clang_ into one of the concrete supports of the overpass. Steve himself overbalances, expecting a counterweight he doesn't get, and is forced to redirect his momentum into a roll. It's the damned borrowed gloves, he realizes—not only are they too big, the grips have been worn almost smooth. Useless for combat. He dodges another spray of bullets and dives behind an overturned car, using the half-second it buys him to tear the gloves off.

The shield feels different in Steve's bare hand—always smoother than he expects, somehow—but it's hardly the first time he's fought this way. He throws again, strikes true this time, and catches the shield easily, ignoring the whip-like sting across his palm.

He takes down two more agents before he sees the Soldier. Gun raised, but not firing—lining up a shot. _Natasha._ Steve hurls the shield, praying it's enough.

The Winter Soldier catches it. But at least it's disrupted his attention, giving Natasha a chance to take cover. The Soldier turns and locks eyes with Steve. He's lost his goggles. His eyes are blue.

Lots of people have blue eyes. It shouldn't astonish Steve like it does, the Winter Soldier having blue eyes. They're not even that bright; more overcast gray-blue than clear-sky blue. Like Bucky's eyes.

The next bullet grazes the hair on Steve's head as he ducks, very nearly too late.

_Focus!_

Distance gives the heavily-armed Soldier an advantage. Close the distance. Charge.

It's single combat, the way he likes it, for the next few seconds. But as the Soldier counters his every move, Steve's normal battle-exhilaration sharpens to an edge of fear. He's fighting harder than ever before in his life, but between the leather, Kevlar, and metal, he can't find a weak point anywhere. And meanwhile, Steve himself is fighting in civilian clothes. One split-second misstep could kill him.

The Soldier even wields Steve's own shield as a weapon, blocking Steve's attack and then hurling it into the back door of a van—Steve ducking, once again, in the nick of time. Then the Soldier gets a metal hand around his throat, and he spends a few desperate moments staying alive. Then he has to fend off a pocket knife. Finally he disengages long enough to recover his shield, and then, _finally_ , in a flurry of punches and blocks, there's a moment when Steve gets an opening. His hand connects with the Soldier's mask and he grabs hold of it, fingers gouging furrows in the Soldier's cheek as he uses the mask's leverage to throw him off-balance.

The Soldier goes down hard and rolls away. Steve nearly goes down too, doubling over in combined pain and surprise as a sharp electric shock passes up his arm, instinctively covering himself with the shield. That mask must've been wired somehow, rigged to electrocute anyone who tried to remove it—only Steve's grounded. The shock should have gone right through him. It hasn't. It's thrumming along every nerve in his body, like fire under his skin.

Steve peers over the top of his shield. The Winter Soldier stands a few feet away, metal hand re-adjusting his mask, the other arm drawn to his chest. His whole posture's hunched, like he's hurting. He stares at Steve with wide eyes, pupils expanded, in an expression that's suddenly, shockingly familiar.

"What the hell did you do?" the Soldier demands, the mask muffling his voice but not quite hiding a note of panic.

Steve knows what he did. He's transfixed by the Soldier's blue eyes and wounded-animal stance and the emotion rapidly filling his chest, displacing the fear there, is _desire._

The Soldier aims a gun. Steve's frozen, his mind on a spinning loop, and he'd be dead meat if not for Sam Wilson. Sam swoops in from nowhere and kicks the Soldier clear off his feet, then hits the ground at a run. He calls over his shoulder, "Steve! Are you hurt?"

"That's not exactly the word I would use." Steve grits his teeth and falls into a balanced crouch, shield still raised defensively. The Winter Soldier has recovered and mirrors his posture, left arm on the ground for balance. His chest is heaving under the leather tac vest. Steve makes a call.

"You and Nat worry about the rest of the team. I can handle the Soldier."

It's a tactical decision, not a reckless one. He can't take time to explain why he suddenly needs the Winter Soldier to survive the fight. Can't fully justify it even to himself, but Steve has always trusted his gut when making tough calls, and his gut tells him—well, part of it is telling him to drag the Soldier off somewhere private and get him out of that heavy gear as quickly as possible, never mind the risks, but the part he _trusts_ is saying that however impossible it might seem, the man facing him now could be his soulmate, and a soulmate isn't someone you kill.

The Soldier approaches him slowly, keeping low, shifting his weight between feet and the metal hand. Steve resolves that he's allowed to _notice_ the coiled grace and perfect self-possession with which the Soldier moves, but not to let it distract him.

"We don't have to fight," Steve says, stalling.

Those storm-blue eyes narrow. Steve would give a kingdom to know what the Soldier's face is doing behind that mask. Particularly his mouth.

"We can figure this out," Steve goes on. The Soldier won't listen, in all likelihood, but if Steve can keep him off-balance and get close enough, maybe knock him unconscious—

The Soldier lunges, barrelling into Steve head-on. Steve is knocked flat, the shield slamming into his chest and pinning one arm as he completely forgets to brace for impact. He flings his other arm up just in time to prevent the Soldier from shifting to a chokehold, then loses a fraction of a second to the titillating warmth of the Soldier's body pressed along his side, the iron-strong legs wrapped around his waist.

It's long enough for the Soldier to give up on the chokehold and clamp his metal fingers around Steve's throat instead, cutting off air and circulation both, _shit_. Steve belatedly scrabbles to break the grip. His vision is darkening around the edges and there may or may not be an _entirely_ inappropriate reaction starting up in his lower regions when he realizes the Soldier has paused, holding perfectly still, leaning close. So close. Steve can hear the rasp of breath through his mask, even over the ringing in his own ears.

Steve grabs the Soldier's face, around the temples where the skin is exposed. The white-hot burn of contact surges through him, blotting out everything else—or maybe that's the lack of oxygen—but the Soldier rears back, flailing with both arms, catching Steve's hand and bending it back and Steve might be about to get his wrist broken, but he can breathe.

The Soldier pauses again, legs still clamped around Steve's waist and metal hand still twisting his arm. His eyes burn with something resembling fury, but he keeps still, watching. Steve pants his way back to full consciousness, takes mental stock of his own condition—still no major injuries but dear _God_ is he turned on right now—and has the wild thought that in life-or-death situations like this one, avoiding public indecency really hardly rates as a concern, much less a priority.

Maybe it's for the best that this thought is interrupted by someone shouting, close behind him, in a language he doesn't understand. Russian, it sounds like.

The Winter Soldier tenses, then looks up and responds in the same language. He rises fluidly and steps back. Then Steve's old Strike team moves in, shouting and waving guns, hauling Steve to his feet. He risks one glance over his shoulder as he's herded into the back of a SHIELD van. The Winter Soldier is looking over his shoulder at Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. I'm disappointed too. Letting them get together here would have ground the plot to a halt, though. (Anyone who wants to write a steamy AU of this chapter should feel more than welcome.)


	3. Chapter 3

Steve wants to be thankful that Nick Fury survived his assassination attempt. He definitely ought to thank Maria Hill for infiltrating the Strike team and saving their asses. But his gratitude fights a hard battle against multiple levels of frustration—at Fury's secrecy and Hill's complicitness in it, at Fury's insistence on trying to salvage what's left of SHIELD, and not least the time he takes in getting to the point while Steve sits, trying to ignore the burning itch under his skin and not thinking about how the Soldier's endlessly versatile fighting style might translate into the bedroom.

So Steve's operating on a pretty short fuse right now.

"Tell me everything you know about the so-called Winter Soldier," he demands, facing Fury across the table.

Fury leans back and crosses his arms. "I just did. The Winter Soldier might as well be a myth for all the intel we have on him."

"Give me the myth, then. Does he have a name?"

"Rogers, other than the list of kills he's credited for, you know as much as I do. Kills and a physical description are all we ever get."

"Has anyone seen his face?"

"Not and lived to tell it."

"Why does he fight for Hydra?"

"Power? Money? 'Cause he's crazy? Don't ask me why these nutjobs do what they do. Why don't you tell me why you're so concerned with the secret life of a Hydra assassin?"

Steve can't lie about it, not this time, not when it has the potential to impact his performance like it did on the highway. He has to tell them. Has to hope they'll accept what it means, for Captain America to be some kind of—

"You flared with him," Natasha interrupts, looking and sounding astonished.

And part of Steve could strangle her for blurting it out, in mixed company and everything, even as he's also pathetically relieved at not having to utter the words himself. He lets his speechlessness, as they all wait with widening eyes, confirm her guess.

Hill breaks the silence. "What."

Sam follows her lead. "Shit."

"That's an intriguing theory," says Fury, and Steve might strangle him instead, "but unless the Captain is claiming that he _didn't_ flare in 1945, contrary to his medical—"

"'33, actually," Steve retorts, not caring what this does to his cover story, "and I'd say that puts me in a position to know when I'm feeling one. I don't know why it's happening again. Maybe Erskine's serum had something to do with it."

"Wait, but you're—but the Winter Soldier is—" Steve can _see_ the moment Hill realizes that continuing her sentence would be inappropriate. She shuts her mouth, and then her eyes flick downward, probably involuntarily. Steve's all right for the moment—restless, hot, and hyperaware of every brush of fabric or draft of air against his skin, but not overtly aroused. Still, he leans on the tabletop to obscure her view and watches with some satisfaction as she blushes and looks away, chastised.

"Our first priority is stopping Hydra from lauching those carriers," Steve says loudly, because he's Captain America, goddammit, and he wouldn't deserve the title if he couldn't keep his focus where it belonged. "My... _affinity_ for the Winter Soldier can wait."

"Can it, Cap?" Fury's good eye fixes him with the kind of look he uses on junior agents trying to cover up rookie mistakes.

"What do you suggest, that we postpone the mission? Let Hydra get in a few million shots first?"

"I'm not asking about the mission. I'm asking if you're fit for duty."

"I am fit for duty, sir." He's done this before. He made it twelve days before breaking down the last time. He can make it through tomorrow.

"I'm sorry." Hill flaps her hands, clearly uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, can't we get him something?"

Natasha says, "Not without a prescription. Or four, when you consider his metabolism."

"I told you, it won't be a problem."

"And what happens when the Winter Soldier shows up at the Triskelion tomorrow?" Fury presses.

"Then I'll fight him, same as I did today."

"You lost today," Fury fires back. Rude.

"It was more of a stalemate."

"Agent Hill reports he had you flat on your back. Suddenly I'm not so sure that was an accident." Now he wants to strangle Fury _and_ Hill. Steve needs to end this conversation.

"The way I see it, you can take on Hydra without me, or you can do it with my help. The Winter Soldier's in the same condition I am. That doesn't mean he won't kill any one of you given half a chance. At the very least, if he does show up, I can keep him out of your way." _One way or another_ , he refrains from adding, though the idea sends a thrill through him that's surprisingly devoid of accompanying shame. Steve is a soldier, and an officer to boot. His success or failure hinges on practicality—on weighing odds and calculating risks. He's never believed in fate or divine signs, much less relied on them. And yet... just as he started to think about moving on, he went and flared again. The 21st century has someone for him, and maybe... maybe it means that despite appearances, God didn't just pack him on ice and forget him. That he _belongs_ in this time. That he's been gifted a new, true lease on life instead of just a front-row seat to watch the old one fade. If converting—no, be honest, if _seducing_ a Hydra assassin to the side of freedom turns out ot be his rite of passage to this new life? Well, it's unconventional, but Steve has never shied from a challenge.

Bucky would have wanted it, he tells his conscience firmly.

Fury's eye has narrowed. "Just don't do anything we're all going to regret."

~*~

Fury's cave makes a decent safehouse, being carved into rock and near impossible to see from the outside. Where it's lacking is in architectural amenities, including doors that close and lock. Steve would like nothing more than to find some temporary relief from the persistent arousal of the flare, but he's not desperate enough to do so where anyone could walk in. So Sam finds him standing at the edge of the dam, staring over a concrete wall into the rushing water, trying not to think about anything.

Sam leans against the wall beside him and sighs. "Look, are you sure you can do this? No one will think less of you if you can't."

"I can't exactly take a sick day," Steve argues, keeping his eyes on the water. "This is Hydra's big play. They've brought the whole world to the brink of chaos, and tomorrow morning they're going to— _ow!_ "

"Easy, man, easy," a voice is saying, cutting through the—the darkness? Steve blinks. Speckled concrete swims in his vision.

"Steve, talk to me. Steve, what happened?" Sam Wilson's voice. Sam has an arm around his shoulders, is lowering him to sit with his back to the wall. Sam is a bona fide angel, touching him at a time like this.

"There you are, you with me? Steve?"

"I was saying something," Steve mutters. His mind scrambles to orient itself—safehouse, Fury alive, Hydra in SHIELD, attack before the launch tomorrow. He's missing something critical, he knows it. He's forgotten, or lost—it was _so_ important—why's he sitting down—

"Yeah, you were talking about how you were fit to take on Hydra, and then you keeled over on me. I gotta say, not the best way to prove your point."

"I'm fine." He's confused and groggy, like after waking up after a midday nap. But other than that—

—he feels normal. No. _No._

"Look, I don't know what happened, but it's not fine. This is not the behavior of someone who's fine."

God, if Sam knows it's not fine he should know better than to ask about it. Steve musters a smile, shakes his head a little. "I guess Hydra doesn't have much use for operatives that flare with the enemy."

"Oh, shit." Sam's eyes widen. "Did they—Steve, did you just lose your soulmate while we were standing here?"

Yeah. Steve just lost his soulmate. Again. So much for finding his place.

"Shit, man." Sam squeezes his shoulder and shakes his own head. "That's messed up. Do you think they killed him?"

"They must have. Only way to break a flare, right?"

"Listen, I've gotta be straight with you, man. That's one legendary fighter we won't have to fight tomorrow, and seeing as he almost did us in the first time, I'm relieved as hell. But I'm also sorry. It's a tough break."

"Yeah."

"Do you wanna talk about it? We could grab some beers and talk about it. Or we don't have to talk, we can just drink. Think your ex-boss stocked any beers in that secret cave lair of his?"

"I doubt it, but we can check." Sam is a better friend than Steve deserves. Sam, and Natasha, and a million unsuspecting innocents have a better chance of living through tomorrow with the Soldier gone, and Steve can't allow himself to regret that. He's Captain America, goddammit.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did mention how action scenes are hard to write?

"Hey Cap, how do we tell the good guys from the bad guys?"

"If they're shooting at you, they're bad!"

Combat. A singleminded drive to complete the mission. As far as distractions from all other thought go, it's better than a punching bag. Steve sprints across the hangar toward the first helicarrier, trusting Sam to take the second.

"Hey Cap, I found some of those bad guys you were talking about."

Fight. Run. Fight some more. Steve slides the first targeting chip into place. "Alpha lock."

Sam, not to be outdone: "Bravo lock."

The carriers have lifted off, with the third targeting chip still in Steve's hand. Chaos reigns on the tarmac, and more than once he's heard gunfire through the link to Hill in the control room. That third carrier will be ready for them.

He calls Sam for a ride. They'll take this one together.

"You know, you're heavier than you look."

"I had a big breakfast." Steve bends his knees as they approach the third carrier.

The attack comes instantly. Steve has barely touched down when something slams into them both, a flurry of metal and leather and deadly force, breaking Sam's grip. Steve is flung aside and barely catches a protruding ledge. He hauls himself up, catching his breath, trying to make sense of the jumbled impression he's gotten of a metal arm, a familiar figure—

"Cap!" Sam shouts through the comm. "Cap, come in. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm here. I'm still on the helicarrier. Where are you?"

"I'm grounded. The suit's down. Sorry, Cap."

The helicarrier is still rising. It's down to Steve and... whatever just attacked them.

"Don't worry," he says, pushing himself upright. "I got it."

~*~

In the cavernous underbelly of the helicarrier, at the end of a long catwalk, the Winter Soldier guards the control tower.

The Winter Soldier—

Steve blinks rapidly. The image before him remains constant, but it can't be the Winter Soldier. It must be someone who looks like him. Someone practically identical—height, figure, hair, metal arm, even the way he holds himself. The same black mask hides the lower half of his face.

"How many of you are there?" Steve asks, willing himself to breathe. This explains the Soldier's exceptionally long track record, at least.

The Soldier gives no sign of having heard. Steve crosses the catwalk, shield raised. He makes it to within a few yards of the tower before the Soldier twitches. Steve stops.

Gray-blue eyes. The Winter Soldier's eyes. _Bucky's_ eyes, haunting him from one life to the next.

"What are you?" Steve asks quietly.

The Soldier doesn't answer.

"Do you know me?"

No answer.

"Please don't make me do this."

No answer. Steve has no time for a staring contest. He steps within arm's reach, shield at the ready.

The Soldier leads with a punch from his right arm. Steve dodges and feints with his shield, then throws a punch of his own.

He pulls his punch at the last second. God knows it isn't smart, because this isn't Bucky, and it can't be the man Steve flared with yesterday. But Steve can't learn the truth if he kills his opponent here, and he needs to know. Was his soulmate an identical twin? Or reanimated somehow, like in those movies Tony likes? Or is this a clone? Was Steve's Soldier himself a clone? If you cloned a man and he was somebody's soulmate, would the clones also be—

A metal fist connects with Steve's face, hard enough to send him flying backward. He slams into the catwalk, stars bursting in his vision, ears ringing and head spinning even as the adrenaline of the fight has him rolling aside to present a moving target. He hears a gunshot and feels it clip his right arm, flung up to protect his face.

Right. No pulling punches.

They fight up and down the catwalks. Steve gets in a hit with his shield and knocks the Soldier to the floor level, then races for the tower. His shield comes hurtling back, sweeping his feet, and then he hits the floor himself and they're grappling again. The Soldier grabs the targeting chip; Steve wrestles it back. He gets an arm around the Soldier's throat and chokes, and a few interminable seconds later the Solder drops the chip, unconscious.

He lies heavy in Steve's arms, eyes closed. His head lolls to one side. Steve could pull off the mask. He could find out—

No time. Steve lays the Soldier down and bolts for the control tower. He just needs to complete the mission, then they'll have all the time in the world. Steve can remove the mask, get his questions answered, do anything he likes just as soon as he completes the mission.

He's halfway up the ladder when a bullet strikes just above his hip.

He's scrambling onto the catwalk when two more knock the wind out of him.

Steve collapses on the catwalk, struggling to fill his lungs against the urge to cry out in pain. He's not shaking off two gut shots. He crawls, blocking out every thought but _get the chip to the tower, finish the mission_.

The chip snaps into place. "Charlie lock."

Hill's voice crackles over the comm. "Okay, Cap, get out of there!"

Steve has three bullet wounds. He's either going to survive the fall from this height, or he isn't; there's no other escape route. The Winter Soldier doesn't have an escape route either.

Time to find out if he belongs in this century or not. "Fire now."

"But Steve—"

"Do it! Do it now!"

The entire helicarrier rocks violently, as the starboard windows light up in a row of explosions.

Steve tumbles to the main level and lands hard, curled up and groaning. Fresh pains stab through his chest, arm, side—severe internal damage, most likely. Blood has soaked into the white stripes of his uniform, slippery under his hands. The fire spreads quickly, smoke and debris obscuring his vision; where he's fallen, he can't see any sign of the Soldier. Not that it matters; the man who shot him less than a minute ago isn't going to be interested in introductions now.

No, all things considered, this is how he always knew it would end.

When the metal beam falls on him, there's no pain, just a sudden crushing weight and the world gone dark.

~*~

He claws back to consciousness, sucking in an agonizing breath as the weight on him is lifted. He's flipped over, blinking upward at fire and metal and smoke and sky and the dark, half-obscured face of the Winter Solder. Their eyes lock, and Steve finds he can't blink anymore.

The Soldier's brow furrows. His metal hand brushes Steve's cheek, questing, almost gentle. Then he pulls off his mask, exposing his face for the first time.

"Bucky," Steve breathes, not caring that he's hallucinating.

Bucky's eyes widen. Then the floor gives way beneath them.

~*~

Steve wakes on the riverbank, alone. He's covered head to foot in mud, blood, and the now-familiar all-consuming burn of a flare.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um... make sure you read the note at the end?

Steve spends six days in the hospital, healing broken bones and internal damage. They send him home with instructions to rest and "avoid risky behavior," plus a list of prescriptions he never bothers to fill. The twenty-first century, as it turns out, has medicines to suppress flare symptoms, but like all pharmaceuticals they work on Steve only at near-toxic dosages, and the doctors aren't willing to deviate that much from their FDA-approved guidelines. It doesn't matter. The flare means Steve made a connection, however fleeting, and he'd rather not dull it.

The doctors say he'll live. Apparently his mother was right and Bucky was wrong, those eighty years ago.

Natasha stops by with Chinese take-out. She nearly gets herself _thrown_ out after making a string of lewd recommendations regarding management of Steve's condition, ending with an offer of assistance. Then, in true Natasha form, she promptly regains favor by handing over a file from an old associate in Kiev. Steve can't read Russian, but he recognizes Bucky's picture.

Bucky. Alive, right now.

Sam helps investigate the Hydra locations in DC, the ones that most recently held the Winter Soldier. He offers to accompany Steve to Russia, but Steve isn't going. Bucky may have disappeared after the Potomac, but he won't wander far; not with the flare running through his veins. Not if there's any resemblence left to the man Steve used to know. Steve stands a better chance of finding him by staying put and staying visible. He takes to roaming the streets of DC, mostly at night, ignoring the way Sam repeats the doctors' warnings about "risky behavior" every evening like a mantra.

Bucky will come to him. He's done before.

So Steve's surprised, although in retrospect he shouldn't be, when Tony Stark calls him from New York.

"Security picked up something that might belong to you."

~*~

Steve reaches Avengers Tower five hours later. Would've been sooner if not for that speed trap on I-95.

"You said tower security found him?" he asks as he follows Tony through a polished first-floor corridor.

"Yeah, he got past the door scanners, which believe me, JARVIS and I will be looking into. But then he walked up to a reception desk and asked for you. He's in one of the interview rooms now."

Steve stumbles. "Interview room?"

"Cap, that lobby we just left is full of secretaries, analysts, accountants, and other assorted paper-pushers. Their total combat experience works out to a couple years's worth of pee wee karate lessons. So the Iceman and I have negotiated an agreement where he _doesn't_ kill my employees and smash his way out of custody, because he doesn't need to. We've had this wing evacuated just in case, and JARVIS is ready to lock it down if he tries anything. Now that you're here, I figure we stand a reasonable chance of stopping whatever he's up to. Here." Tony 's hand darts sideways touches a viewscreen mounted on the wall next to a door.

The screen lights up with video: a small, square room, with a desk in the center and a chair on either side of it. A dark-haired man sits huddled in one corner, chin on his knees. Steve can't breathe. He's broken out in a sweat.

"I'll start the intercom whenever you're ready," Tony continues. "He'll be able to hear us, and we'll hear him. That door won't stop him if he comes charging out, but it'll give us time to react. Huh. Has he always been allergic to chairs, or is this new?"

Steve parses the words with an effort, then dismisses them as irrelevant. "Kill the surveillance. Give me half an hour alone with him."

"Not a chance, Cap." Tony fiddles with a setting on the monitor, which doesn't visibly change the display but does demonstrate his intention to _actively_ maintain surveillance. "Just because he promised not to harm anyone doesn't mean I trust him to keep his promise."

"He will. And if he doesn't, I'll handle it."

"Cap." Tony rests a hand on Steve's shoulder. His voice has dropped low and serious. "I know Frankenstein's Monster in there is a buddy of yours. But he's also a killer. JARVIS analyzed the SHIELD archive Romanoff dumped onto the web. That's bad enough, and the records weren't even complete. We still don't know everything he's done."

_None of what he's done matters,_ Steve wants to say. Instead, he forces himself to slow down, pitching his voice to match Tony's in gravity.

"Thanks, Tony. But I know what I'm doing, and I need you to give us some time alone."

"He's under orders to kill you specifically. Do I really need to explain why this is a no-go?"

Funny, _do I really need to explain_ is exactly what Steve is thinking, but his patience has been stretched to the breaking point for days, so he's not about to offer. Instead, he drives an elbow into the monitor, breaking the glass and making the screen go dark.

"So sorry. Clumsy of me. That'll take at least half an hour to fix, right?"

"Something tells me the answer's 'yes' unless I want more of my property vandalized. This is on you, Cap!" Tony warns as Steve turns away. "This is one-hundred-percent your fault, whatever happens, I'm taking no—" He's cut off when Steve enters the room and shuts the door behind him.

Bucky raises his head.

He looks better than—no, he doesn't. He's wearing ratty civilian clothes and mismatched gloves. He looks half-starved and wild and in obvious discomfort and it's the most beautiful thing Steve's seen this side of the war, God help him.

Steve crosses the room. He stops in front of Bucky, fighting the urge to fall on him like a shipwrecked man on driftwood, to seal the bond now and talk it out later. He locks his knees against the urge and clasps his hands behind his back. "Hey, Buck."

Bucky looks up, biting his lip. The Winter Soldier's stubble has grown into almost a beard. It looks softer than it probably feels.

Take it easy. Don't push. "You wanted to see me?"

Bucky's head moves in something midway between a nod and a shake. This would be so much easier if they were already bonded, if Steve knew what Bucky was feeling and could project reassurance.

_Don't push!_

"I," Bucky murmurs, a little hoarsely. His eyes dart sideways, away from Steve.

"Buck. Do you know who I am?"

"Yeah, you're." He shifts to hug his knees tighter. "You're Steve. I touched you, on the riverbank, and then... all this." He waves a hand, and Steve feels a tightness ease in his chest that he hadn't realized he was carrying. He presumed, of course, that Bucky would feel the flare (their _third_ flare, God) the same way he did, but now he _knows_. Knows Bucky wants him, Bucky came back for him, and after a lifetime of hiding and a lifetime of pain they're finally going to _live_.

"I went to Brooklyn," Bucky goes on. "S'different now, but I remembered some things. Had to find you after that. I had..." He frowns. "Forty days?"

Steve feels the tug of a wary smile. "That's a myth, you know. They have case studies to prove it. S'long as you're careful not to do anything stupid, nothing bad happens as a result of leaving a bond unsealed. Well, nothing terrible."

"What happens?" Bucky's eyes have fixed on him with steel intensity. Steve wants to melt under the laser focus of those eyes; he wants to kneel, offer himself up, let Bucky take him apart.

Don't push. Answer Bucky's question. Ignore the way his throat tightens, hint of worry returning.

"If you stay in contact, nothing at all. The flare stays lit indefinitely."

"What if there's no contact?"

"Then after awhile it starts to fade. Slowly. Two months or so and it's gone." For God's sake, he's not about to cry. It's a hypothetical question. Bucky is _right here_.

Bucky rubs his right arm through his shirt sleeve with his metal hand, as though trying to warm up. "But the next time you touch—"

"No. It just... dies." He's not—shit, he can't let Bucky see him cry, not yet. Should he turn his face away or wipe his eye?

He wipes his eye—it's quicker—and drops into a crouch to obscure the motion. He's eye-level with Bucky now. 

Bucky, who's turning his face away, gazing over Steve's shoulder into nothing.

"Buck," Steve says, but he can't bring himself to continue. _Why are you asking me this?_

"I don't know who I am," Bucky says a little breathlessly, shaking his head. "I can't even get a grip on my own mind. How am I supposed to deal with someone else's? Steve. How am I supposed to do this?"

"I can help you," Steve offers desperately. "Bucky, I'm here. Anything you want from me, I'm here, and I miss you like hell and—" Steve realizes he's reaching out and stops, clenches a fist, pulls back. "If you want. If not—it's your choice. You can walk out of here. Nothing terrible will happen. But if you stay, I can help you." _Please stay. I want you to stay. Please._

Bucky keeps shaking his head, like a metronome. Steve counts five shakes. Ten. Thirteen. Then he stills, his full lips turned down at the corners.

"I don't know how to do this," he repeats.

Steve has never prayed so hard in his life.

Bucky rises and steps past Steve on the left side, keeping his arm between them.

"Don't look for me," he says on the way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY I'M SORRY I originally planned to leave the happy ending right here (back when I plotted this piece two years ago), but then Civil War happened and I couldn't, I had to work through my feelings on Civil War and some of that ended up in this 'verse. THERE WILL BE ONE MORE FIC IN THIS 'VERSE. THIS IS NOT THE END. THE END WILL BE HAPPY-ish don't hate me.


End file.
